“But isn’t this girl an agitator for the emancipation of women?” asked the old Frenchman, Baron Gaston de la Rochère? “One does not marry such a person.”
Madame Annette Felsen laughed: “Why, but you are quite vieux jeu, my dear Baron, quite ancien régime....”
The baron straightened himself up. “Yes, I flatter myself.... In this degenerating world there certainly ought to be a few people who stand by the old principles, the old true ideals. I am very anxious to know what doctrines the ladies and gentlemen of the Rose Order are going to preach. They will scarcely develop in a fitting way the highest concept there is: that of patriotism—since they belong to the most diversified countries, often opposed and unfriendly to one another; and then tact will forbid their expressing openly their patriotic wishes. By the whole make-up of the programme and by many suspicious names among the participants—for example, I would never have sent here as a representative of France the Frenchman who is going to speak—by the various names, I believe there is danger that revolutionary ideas will be put forward more than is desirable. Indeed, the old order and the sacred traditions are so shaken that only a good war could possibly set things straight again. Then we should have the chance to restore to the throne of France a monarch appointed by God, one who would once for all drive out the radical and free-masonic rabble which at the present time puts our country to shame. And even if there were no one of royal blood, still if there were a victorious soldier—a war-hero....”
Countess Vera uttered a little shriek. “Do not speak of war, mon colonel ... it is now many years ago ... but the Manchurian campaign with all its consequences still trembles in all my nerves.... Didn’t the peasants burn my castle? The war itself would not have been anything ... that is as God wills; but the terrible revolution afterwards ... and that would break out again after another war ... there are so many nihilists among us. It was, indeed, a piece of good luck that they could choke off the revolution—the saints helped once more, and genuine Russians remained faithful to the Tsar, who ought never to have granted a constitution....”
“Vera, Vera,” interrupted Madame Annette, “do not talk about politics. There, please light a cigarette.... I will take one, too, and if politics is to be talked about, then will you do the talking, Marchese! you certainly ought to understand the subject, you who are the diplomat, the prominent statesman, the Italian Bismarck!”
The marchese offered the ladies a light. “A diplomat,” said he, “should rather be silent than speak, but I can comfort the colonel by saying that the prospects for a war in Europe are growing brighter and brighter. Perhaps he will see the beautiful times of the ancien régime return. As far as I am concerned, my yearning to bring back the past goes still farther back. The only true, beautiful, fiery, proud life was at the time of the Renaissance. Life was not regarded, men took no care of it, but they lived intensely.... Those adventures, those riotous magnificences of living and of art, that wild existence, that lordly power of unscrupulousness!...”
He had worked himself into a passion of eloquence, and at his final words an almost Satanic smile, which showed his white teeth, flickered around his mouth. Annette looked at him in amazement:—
“You would have made a splendid condottiere, signor. What do you say, Herr Regenburg?”
The famous sportsman had scarcely understood; he was not very fluent in French, but now that he was called upon to give his opinion, he had to say something, whether well or ill. He tittered rather idiotically.
“Why, yes, my dear lady, it is fine to have a bit of a row; we must have some slashing about.... But you are quite right, Marchese, and so are you, Colonel—the old days ought to come back again.”